


The World is at Your Feet

by futureboy



Category: Saturday Night Live, Weekend Update (SNL)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Light Angst, M/M, Missed Connections, New Year's Eve, New York City, Shotgun Wedding, TV News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29358792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: Five worlds where Seth and Stefon almost made it, and one where they did. (Alternate universes abound!)
Relationships: Seth Meyers/Stefon
Comments: 13
Kudos: 30





	The World is at Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> _This is a fair use, non-commercial fanwork. I have nothing to do with SNL. Stefon’s character belongs to John Mulaney, his face to Bill Hader, and his fictional hand in marriage to Seth Meyers - who, in this fanwork, is the persona represented in the Weekend Update skits, and not the actual Seth Meyers. No-one in this fic represents their real-life counterpart._  
>  (As ever, none of my works are listed in search engines.)
> 
> Title from ‘Find The Answer Within’ by the Boo Radleys.

_He asked me for my name_ _  
__Said he was glad he came_ _  
__He wished that he could stay_

_I said the only thing I’ve got more of is time -_ _  
__This isn’t what you think_ _  
__And it’s not what I thought it would be_

* * *

**1  
Apocalypse**

Seth’s not sure if he really, actually believes in luck. The concept of good fortune might be total bullshit for all he knows - it’s just that ‘lucky’ is a shorter word to describe ‘chance situations which happen to benefit him’. It’s lucky that he has his own office. It’s lucky that it’s further away from the bigger studios in the building, because that slight increase in isolation has probably saved his ass. And it’s fucking _lucky_ that Seth has so much experience slipping a chair under the door handle to stop Jost and Che from dipping down the hall and stealing his whiskey, goddamnit.

“Fuck!” he yells, trying to close the door against bloodied fingernails and rapidly-decomposing forearms, _“fuck!!”_

He’s gotta be honest - he’s losing the battle. Shoulda spent more time at the gym working on arm day. (Or whatever people at the gym do. He’s more of a runner and that’s sort of the issue.)

He’s about ten seconds away from giving up entirely, wondering if he can push a desk in front of the door in the pant-shittingly short moment it’ll take for the zombies to bust through and eat him alive, when there’s a shockingly meaty series of _thud_ s from within the hallway. Some of the arms slip back, and the pressure lessens.

“Hello?!” he yells.

“Oh!” is the excitable reply, and the door rattles on its hinges alarmingly. _Thud. Thud. Thud--_

Seth leaps backwards, just as the door flies open in a spray of splinters and sawdust.

A body flops into the room limply - and so does Stefon. Armed with a baseball bat, he hits it until it stops scrabbling at Seth’s ankles.

When the zombie finally stops twitching, Seth watches as Stefon throws his baseball bat into the corner, without a care in the goddamned world, and marches over to the couch against the office wall.

“Don’t just stare, Seth Meyers,” he scolds, “help me lift!”

Seth shakes his head. It fails to clear. Stefon just broke the lock clean out of the frame - he’s not sure whether to be turned on or _terrified_. Nevertheless, he whips over, and they throw the couch up against it almost effortlessly. Easier with two pairs of hands. Who’d have known.

Stefon takes a breath, as though he’s just submitted a final paper and can dust his hands of the matter at _last_.

“Aieaieaie. It’s like Times Square out there,” he says, mostly to himself, as Seth stares at him. Then he seems to reconsider: “ _well,_ regular Times Square, anyway… Times Square _now_ isn’t exactly a walk in the park. The M&M Store wasn’t looking so hot when I passed through just then, let me tell you _that_. What an unnecessary drama!”

 _“Stefon,”_ says Seth.

He glides over. (Seth’s never been so glad to see those awful bedazzled boots.) “My man,” Stefon says delicately, and wipes the blood from Seth’s face before pressing lips to one of his cheeks. “I was hoping you’d still be here--”

Seth feels faint.

“Hey, honey,” he mumbles, feeling less like he’s saying it, and more like he’s letting the words dribble out of his mouth. “You broke down my door, did you know?” 

“Oh, I know,” Stefon says, “I had to get to you, I was glad for the excuse. I’ve been wanting to break down your door and sweep you off your feet since 2011! I just wish it wasn’t here-- that elevator ride was the _worst_ , ugh. I’ve seen some Hep B danger zones in my time, but _really_.”

“Stefon…” he starts, because the only certain thing in the midst of the screaming and crashing is the name of the man he married. “How-- how the _hell_ did you get up here?! I thought you were scoping out that sinkhole full of rats in Brooklyn this afternoon!”

“Well, yes, but it started to get a little more bite-y than usual,” Stefon says flippantly, “so I decided to ditch and come and find you.”

His heart clenches tightly: “I wasn’t sure I was gonna be able to find _you_ ,” he mumbles.

“This is why all our mail comes to ‘Mrs. Meyers’. You couldn’t organize a two-ticket raffle.”

“Uncalled for,” Seth says back. “I hope you’ve got a plan, because mine was ‘step one: somehow survive’ and ‘step two: somehow find Stefon’.”

“The devil’s in the details,” Stefon snarks. He’s checking the windows. They’re pretty high up.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly have time to flesh it out before...”

He coughs.

“What?” asks Stefon.

“Before the security guards started going for each other,” he starts awkwardly, “and the flesh really _was_ out. Super gross. Can rats be zombies?”

“Noooo,” says Stefon, “but it’s okay, the sinkhole took care of my day drinking entourage.”

There’s a nasty screeching sound from the hallway, and Seth swallows thickly. “Just in case,” he says, and Stefon makes a face - “no, I’m serious, just in case something happens, I love you and I’m glad I married you and I love you.”

“You said that twice,” Stefon says. He glances nervously at the couch.

“I meant it twice.”

“We need to build something sturdier.”

“On it,” says Seth. He goes for the furniture, and Stefon retrieves his weapon. God, Seth needs a weapon. This is insane. Like, insane _even for New York_.

There’s a muffled roar, and a hand bursts through the middle of the couch.

Seth yells without meaning to.

“Holy shit!”

“Furniture!” Stefon shrieks, flapping at the rest of the room. “Keep going!”

Oh god. Oh, no. Seth’s fairly sure his blood has been replaced with pure liquid fear. They’re not gonna make it out of this.

“Til death do us part, _motherfucker_!” Stefon’s shouting, in a shrill and yet uncharacteristically _vulgar_ way, before he beats back a bloodied, manicured hand and what might be the burly forearm of a former security guard.

Seth starts heaving one of the desks over to build a barricade; Stefon shrieks again. Seth took his eyes away for one second, and now his husband has his back flattened against the couch frame, trying to physically and literally hold it together against the onslaught. It’s starting to give way as their attackers scrape their way through. A cushion spring _boings_ comically, and the stuffing starts to puff into the air with sheer violent clawing, and the desk is too heavy for Seth to move quickly enough, and--

* * *

**2  
Drunken Decisions**

And it still feels real. But it’s _not_.

Seth wakes up with a start: heart pounding; shoulders tensing; eyes snapping open, despite the weary tension trying to force them closed again.

What the _fuck._

He rolls over in bed, only to find that he’s wedged into the right-hand side, and that the covers on the left are flung open and quickly cooling.

A stab of pain shoots through his temple. Holy shit, his head is _thrumming_. Last night must’ve gotten out of control, fast. What’s the last thing he remembers? Seth squeezes his eyes shut again, letting flashes of the previous night jab his corpse of a brain with sticks: the dark wood of a bartop, the dangerous and rising raucous of Alphabet City on a night celebrating ‘The Strokes’-- the sensation, rather than the image, of giggling into Stefon’s neck-- lace and ringing ears and standing _way_ too close to one another--

Stefon wanders out of his bathroom, as close to ‘put together’ as he usually is, and stares. He’s already fully dressed, complete with bedazzled boots.

Seth stares back.

After a few seconds - mostly spent raking his apprehensive eyes over Seth’s unclothed form - Stefon quietly clears his throat.

“You look _rattled_ , Seth Meyers,” he says, and bites back a smile.

“Yeah,” says Seth, digging the heel of his hand into one of his eyes, “I’m hungover to hell and back, and I’ve never actually been in your place before, and I--- I had a weird dream about us?”

“Oh, honey…” Stefon says, and Seth’s heart sinks. “That wasn’t a dream.”

He looks devilishly pleased for a second, before covering up his big smile with his hands, and there, glinting off his third finger like a threat, is a completely mismatched and far shinier golden band.

“Ah,” says Seth, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and tries desperately to remember something that isn’t about being attacked by zombies.

They’d started in a club named after the Y2K bug, but were forced to move on to ***ahem*, ExcUSE Me** instead - one of the virus cosplayers had started a fight with ‘an old man from Alabama who _never_ swears’ about the word goddamn, and though the Alabama native may have been well-spoken, Seth wasn’t exactly sure he was a pacifist.

After that, it gets spotty about two hours into his memories - a dance floor, a nauseatingly pink glass of _something_ , a too-bright men’s room… 

Oh, shit.

“Did I yell at someone in a restroom?” he asks.

“You yelled at _me_ in a restroom,” Stefon corrects, “it was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my _life_. Hoo, mama.”

“Why--”

“Oh,” he says flippantly, “you didn’t like that I was in there about to give a blowjob to Reverse RoboCop.”

“Reverse--?”

“Yeah, he started off as a robot, and then he died and they gave him human parts. Then he found a happy medium,” Stefon witters, “but the Roblowjob isn’t important. What’s important is that you burst in, like-- knocked the lock clean out of the catch--”

(Seth flinches.)

“And you started yelling at me, _really_ losing your shit! And so I said, ‘I’m not _yours_ , Seth Meyers,’ and then you said _‘well, why not?!’_ And that’s about the time I ditched Reverse Robocop--”

Okay, he can feel that he’s still wearing underwear, so that’s a pretty good sign. Seth checks under the covers to reassure himself anyway. Small victories.

“And then we left, and you dragged me all the way down Seventh Avenue to a stuffy beige office, and we were still in party clothes soaked with alcohol but you married me anyway,” Stefon finishes. He rocks back on his heels and looks remarkably pleased with himself. “It was fun!”

“Was it?” Seth says weakly.

“Yesyesyes. One for the books,” says Stefon, his eyes twinkling, and then he follows up with: “I won’t tell any of your lady friends if you won’t. Nice souvenir, though...”

His heart fucking _stops_.

“…Wait. Souvenir?”

Stefon nods. “I’ll keep it for the memories. It’s so cute!”

“Right,” says Seth. 

If he’s reacting too stiffly to this change of plans, then Stefon either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. It might be a mixture of the two. “I have to go,” he twitters, gathering up keys and stuffing his pockets with - well, Seth doesn’t really wanna know - “Reverse Robocop has a costume fitting for Thursday, and I still owe him a blowjob. I’ll see you at work?”

He tries to swallow, but his mouth feels disgustingly sandy. “Yeah,” he says, attempting casualness and failing, “yeah, work! I’ll see you at the desk.”

“Don’t bother with locking up when you leave. Oh, and definitely don’t worry your handsome face about _this_ ,” Stefon grins, wiggling his ring-clad hand at him and completely misreading the room. “We’ll sort it out later, _lovebug_ , I promise. You might be a catch of the day, but Stefon _hates_ to be a homewrecker. He’ll throw you back to your fish family.”

“HA,” says Seth, too loudly. “Yeah. We’ll sort it out later. Cool. All cool with me.”

Stefon’s already left.

Seth glances down at the ring on his own hand, with a sinking feeling in his stomach that only has a little to do with his disgustingly vile-tasting comedown.

One for the books. Right.

* * *

**3  
College**

It’s the hottest day of the year, and Seth is stuck slap-bang in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t always mind - it’s sweaty work anyway, regardless of the weather, because he has to spend his whole day cooking hotdogs and kicking the generator under the counter. Grilling hotdogs sure beats working in a bar until four in the morning, though, and it’s a better paying gig than serving up shitty paper bag meals in a fast food chain location. Gotta pay his tuition somehow.

It’s a nice location - hovering on the edge of Main Street, where the storefronts bustle with students doing window shopping and locals doing _actual_ shopping on sunny days. Where freshman kids can bring their parents to show them something halfway presentable. Then, on their way back to campus, they can pick up some street food if they’re in a hurry (or if they’re just kids who want something easy on the wallet for lunch. Who can blame them?)

The hot dog stand is opposite an empty lot on Main Street, which means Seth can see - and hear - the business a whole block over. 

It’s a car wash.

And there’s a dramatically tall man working there, who is basically _always_ scrubbing away to the rhythm of ghetto-blaster disco music.

Seth remembers him because he’s eye-catching. Just a young guy - can’t be older than him, for sure. The guy definitely seems to enjoy washing sedans in the heat. This summer, he’s consistently swapped his uniform slacks out for ridiculously short denim cutoffs (one of the reasons Seth noticed him - who the fuck dresses like that?) and he wears his standard-issue baseball cap backwards in an endearingly frattish sort of way. He’s someone who moves like he doesn't want anyone to know his internal speaker constantly blasts disco music into his brain.

Today, it’s Grace Jones.

_Pull up to my bumper, baby_ _  
__In your long black limousine,_ _  
__Just pull up to my bumper, baby_ _  
__And drive it in-between…_

He’s not sure why he does it. Maybe it’s the urging of fate. Maybe it’s something spontaneous - a product of boredom. Maybe it’s because it’s absolutely sweltering outside, and they’re both stuck out here in it together.

Whatever the reason, Seth chooses this quiet, hot day to call out to him for the first time.

“Hey, Car Wash Dude!”

Car Wash Dude startles. Hilariously and violently. He actually throws his sponge over his shoulder.

Eventually, upon the realization that no-one is lurking in the shadows to jump him, with Seth being used as the worst lure in modern history, he points a finger at his denim chest pouch, as if to say ‘ _why, little ol’ me?_ ’

It’s kinda sweet. Seth beckons him over.

“Hey,” he says. (He tries to level out his volume as the car wash employee approaches - Seth’s not interested in being karate chopped to death out of surprise.) “Listen, I’m about to shut for the day ‘cos I’m all out of food, but I had a good shift so I figured--”

He pulls a can of soda from the refrigeration hatch.

“--Maybe you’d appreciate this? Sunny one today, huh?” he finishes.

The car wash employee wipes his fringe from his forehead. He looks just as slick with sweat as Seth feels.

“It is,” he agrees, in a dainty, smoky voice which sounds nothing like the lyrics Seth can hear being belted across the way sometimes. “How much?”

Seth waves his hand dismissively. “Nothin’. On the house. I actually sold everything else today, so I’m not gonna miss it.”

“Oh,” he says. He seems to be alarmed by this development. “Are you sure?!”

“Price of a name,” Seth decides.

The guy holds his hand out limply; when Seth reaches out to take it, however, the man’s grip is startlingly strong. “Stefon,” he says. When Seth hands over the soda, Stefon immediately presses the cold metal to his neck and sighs.

“I’m Seth.”

“Thank you, Seth,” says Stefon, drawing out the ‘th’ for much longer than necessary. “Are you a student at the college?”

“Yeah, majoring in RTVF,” he says. “How about you?”

“College?!” Stefon splutters hysterically. He pops the tab and takes a long sip, before finally saying: “noooo, _no,_ honey, I’m saving up for a Greyhound outta here. _College_... No, no, _no_.”

“Are you going home? You didn’t sound like you’re from around here,” Seth remarks.

Stefon curls his tongue over his front teeth, and in an almost self-conscious gesture, smooths down the fabric of his shirt, like he’s trying to make his chest more presentable. “No,” he grins, baring teeth for the briefest of seconds, before drawing some his fingers over them. After a deep breath, he closes his eyes: _“oohhhh,”_ he croons, _“I’m a native New Yorkeeerrrr!”_

Seth chuckles into the seal of his soda can.

God, it’s warm out.

“Disco guy, huh?” he asks. It’s not every day he strikes up conversation with someone who sings ‘Odyssey’ tracks off the top of their head. “Shoulda figured, with the, uh… Car wash, and all.”

Stefon grins. “It’s a very respectable subculture, Food Shack Seth! And it’s a _readily available_ one in this neck of the woods,” he adds, like he feels he has to defend his choices. In all honesty, Stefon doesn’t _look_ like the kind of guy who usually feels the need to defend his choices, so this is strange in itself. “Disco has a presence. Lots of history. Lots of… Really big shoes.”

“Yeah, you clearly need them,” Seth says to him. 

Stefon preens under the up-and-down of Seth’s gaze. (Seth doesn’t feel weird about doing it, which is weird in itself - like he’s _supposed_ to be checking out this dramatically hairy man covered in soap suds.)

“I’ll need them when I get back,” Stefon says. “To keep out of the mess. Sidewalk suds. I don’t usually care, but company might.”

“Company?” Seth asks.

“Yes,” says Stefon, “men, women, former kings, fallen queens… The wolf people don’t mind so much, they _love_ garbage water. But most of the newcomers need acclimatizing to the sidewalk sewage.”

“You’re really selling New York City to me,” Seth says. He realizes he’s got his chin in his hands like a lovesick teenager, but he doesn’t really care.

Stefon leans closer over the counter of the stand. He sets down the soda and steeples his hands over his mouth: “I find disco music is _tame_ , there,” he says eventually, through a big, flirty smile.

Seth returns it.

When the car across the lot honks its horn, Seth jumps so hard that he bites his tongue a little; Stefon almost cracks the back of his head on the awning of the stand.

“Hey, Zolesky! Get your ass back over here, you’re wasting time, cʼmon--”

“Ignore him,” says Stefon, with a curl in his lip, “that’s Dirk. He hates disco and fun and me. He’s just mad because I hotboxed his precious little Toyota Corolla one or two or six times.”

It takes everything Seth has not to laugh. “I see,” he says, nodding like he totally understands, “I think you should make it seven, just to be sure of it.”

“It could be a date.”

“It could,” says Seth. “But on the off chance I never see you again, have a good trip home, Stefon.”

“A Greyhound’s never fun,” Stefon says sagely, “until _I_ board one.”

That much is plausible. “Wish I could see it unfold,” Seth replies.

He offers out his soda to click the two cans together - Stefon reacts with apprehension, as though this has never happened to him before, and Seth is completely and utterly fascinated by him. What the fuck. He’s just so _strange_.

Another horn honk.

_“Stefon, I swear to fuckin’ god--”_

“You should come along for the ride,” says Stefon blithely. “Make a summer of it. You’d be fine… Mostly.”

Huh.

Seth actually considers it.

The opportunity makes something like pins and needles coil in his stomach. He can’t do that - that’s _crazy_. He doesn’t know Stefon, for one. He’s got the rest of his school career to work through, for another. And he has nothing in New York (yet) to keep him alive, although he does wonder if that’s the same case for Stefon, too.

It would be fun.

Dangerously so.

Stefon doesn’t let him accept or reject, though. He crushes the can into a little circle, surprisingly delicately, and starts backing away.

“Thanks for the soda, Food Shack Seth,” he says. The horn honks again, for an extended period, like an alarm; his smile is present but watery.

“Yeah,” says Seth, “any time.”

Stefon’s replacement has a symmetrical haircut. He wears the uniform, buys hot dogs on a semi-regular basis, and listens to Moby. He probably doesn’t hotbox Dirk’s car. He definitely doesn’t come and accept free sodas from Seth’s stand.

Seth finds the car wash significantly less interesting after that.

Shortly after Seth graduates, the empty lot is bought out, and a large pharmacy is built on it. The car wash is no longer visible from the sidewalk the two of them stood on, talking about nothing important, in one moment that’s never repeated.

* * *

**4  
Local News**

“…proving that there’s no wrong way to escape to Mexico,” he smiles, and flashes a million-dollar beam at his camera. Beside him, Cecily comes out with a polite titter, and turns to face the wide shot.

“This has been MNH-TV. I’m Cecily--”

“And I’m Seth,” he says. “Those were our stories… And we’re sticking to them. Have a great day!”

They fistbump each other. The credits hum into life, with strings and chimes and bright graphics. 

And then they’re off air.

“God,” says Cecily, her face falling, “I hate that new catchphrase so much.”

 _“That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it_ _?_ Christ,” Seth says in exasperation, “it’s such a _stupid_ sign off! Did production steal it from somewhere? It’s _terrible_.”

Cecily pulls out her cell phone from nowhere. “Tell me about it,” she says. Makeup scurry over to flick brushes at her face: “I gotta be over in Studio Five in the next fifteen minutes, so I hope you have better luck here, Seth.”

“I won’t,” he grouses. “This is so fucking stupid. It’s all puff pieces, head office must be going under or something. I need a stiff drink.”

“You should check Janice’s filing cabinet in payroll. I heard she keeps a handle of whiskey in there.”

Seth rearranges his stack of papers. He’s got bumpers to shoot now, to shoehorn in between ad breaks for the morning features, and he’s _not_ looking forward to it. 

“I have White People Gasoline for Mr Meyers.”

Seth looks up. 

There’s a runner with a disposable coffee cup. He looks bored. He’s playing with his lanyard and bangs intermittently, and he’s frowning at the displays in the backdrop of the set.

Seth blinks.

“What’s the non-white gasoline equivalent?” he asks curiously.

“A news show that isn’t _this_ one,” the runner says, with a healthy eye-roll to match his tone. _“That’s my story!_ Ugh, please… I’ve heard raunchier nursery rhymes.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” Seth says, and accepts the coffee when it’s handed to him. The runner brushes the back of his hand against his and it might be on purpose. He squints at the print on his ID: “Thank you… Stefon.”

“You’re welcome, Mr Meyers,” he says, and splits his grin with his tongue. Seth tries not to follow it as it swipes over his front teeth. “I hope americano is okay. I figured you weren’t a vanilla latte kinda news diva.”

“You’re correct,” Seth tells him.

He takes a sip. Half a sugar. Just slightly too hot.

Not bad.

A burning curiosity takes refuge in the back of his mind, like spilled suspicion, and Seth quickly comes to terms with the fact that he has a Weird Feeling about Stefon. “Have we met?” he asks. There's an attempt at nonchalance, despite the flare-up of foreboding.

“No, I'm filling in today,” says Stefon. “I’m usually in the other studio. The usual runner had a party last night, I heard.”

Makes sense. Seth always regrets thanking that particular employee for the coffee anyway; it always ends up starting a whole conversation, and _then_ she usually goes off on a tirade about Starbucks, and how they should be serving their lattes on ‘Fairtrays’. (Whatever those are.)

“Are you sure?” he pushes. “Not at all? You seem really familiar.”

Stefon stares.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he says, the words streaming out like a quiet secret, “but I… I don’t think you visit the same places that I do.”

Seth examines him. The dark circles under his eyes; the fresh paper wristbands on his left arm; the glitter caught in his hairline. There's a faded admission stamp on the back of Stefon's hand. 

“No,” he admits. “Probably not.”

“You should come along,” says Stefon, “I’m sure you’d fit right in with the gravel-eaters at **Spaff**.”

Seth would love to know what that involves.

Unfortunately, one of the operators chooses that moment to call out the two minute warning, and Stefon glances nervously at the set. He needs to leave, but he's hovering without purpose, like he's hoping an excuse to stick around might surface in the next hundred seconds. Honestly, Seth's thinking the same thing. He doesn't care if Stefon doesn't leave - there's a magnet in his jaw, dragging his face back in the direction of Stefon's expression and holding fast. The weird feeling remains. 

“I could bring you more coffee,” Stefon suggests quietly. He's not smiling. 

Seth wants to laugh, then cry, then take the week off. He tries a real sip of his drink, and it's the most mediocre coffee he's ever had.

“Best I've had all year,” he replies, “I'd love that. I'm back on tomorrow at eleven?”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” says Stefon, except he doesn't say it like an agreement. 

“Thirty seconds, everyone, we're doing 4A first--”

Seth’s attention is drawn away for two seconds, and when he jerks back towards Stefon, the runner has left him at the desk. Stefon’s back is turned. He’s walking away. He didn’t say goodbye.

“Ready to go, Mr Meyers?”

“Yeah,” Seth says impatiently, “yeah, I’m good.”

“Ten seconds! Nine, eight--”

Across the way, in the wings, Seth’s final glimpse of Stefon is of him looking inexplicably _sad_.

“--Rolling!”

Seth bares a smile at the camera. Time for work. Time to forget about the unsettlingly familiar man he literally just met.

 _Come back tomorrow,_ he thinks desperately. _Please_.

Stefon doesn't. 

* * *

**5  
New Year's Eve**

There are two rooftop balconies in this place. The one on the north side of the building is the one which attendees will be able to see the fireworks from shortly, the one that’s packed with romantics and tipsy party-goers and ballgowns and hors d'oeuvres.

The one on the south side of the building isn’t supposed to be open. Which means it’s deserted. Which means it’s _quiet_.

That’s the one Seth’s escaped to, with a big bottle of dessert champagne and a lot of relief.

Fuck.

 _Fuuuuuck_.

He swigs from the bottle. The motion makes it fizz into his mouth violently, bubbling up through his nose, and he spits and coughs and wishes he was at home.

“…I stole some of those tube glasses, if you need one.”

Seth hadn’t been expecting company. He whirls around, whipping himself in the neck with his loose bow tie - there’s a person in a completely insane outfit loitering by the glass doors. He’s got three champagne flutes dangling from his fingers.

“Hi,” he says, quickly wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve jacket. “Are-- are you wearing goat pants?”

“And goat shoes,” the man says, looking bored. It kinda does look like he has goat legs and hooves. He doesn’t mention the dusty pink _corset_ he’s also wearing - which is pretty loose around the sternum - but the whole scene is certainly, uh, something. The champagne flutes are abandoned gently into a potted shrub.

“Why?” is all Seth can think of to say.

“Well,” says the man, “I wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. I was supposed to be at a New Year’s blowout in a bottomless wardrobe.”

“I see,” says Seth, who doesn’t.

“My associate decided this would be a better option,” he continues, curling his lip, “so here I am. Some blowout-alternative _this_ turned out to be, what a _bore_ \--”

“I didn't even want to come to this stupid party,” Seth mutters. “I was supposed to be meeting a friend, but I got stood up.”

“Saaaame,” he drawls, “except, like, I got ditched by my friend. Turns out he just wanted to fuck his way into stealing a floaty dress tonight. So Stefon got left in the dust and he feels _extremely_ out of place.”

Seth puts his hands in his pockets. Huh. Yeah, that’s kind of how he feels.

“I’m Seth,” he says. “Did you say Stefon?”

“Yesyesyesyesyes,” Stefon says back, “I’m Stefon, I’m bored, and I’m _thirsty_ , gimme that.”

The bottle is swiped, with significantly more elegance than Seth would have expected for a drunk man in fuzzy goat pants. Stefon necks some; it doesn’t make a reappearance. He’s clearly better at this than Seth is.

“Is the year still the year, or did it change yet?”

“It’s still the year,” Seth confirms sadly. “We got about three minutes left. Did I do everything I wanted to do? No. Was it anything but a major disappointment? _No._ Is it gone yet? Also no.”

“Ah, New Year Regrets,” Stefon says, and sets the bottle on the balcony barrier. The glass against the stone _clinks_ musically. “I think that’s the name of a hundred proof menthol vodka at the club I was supposed to be at.”

Seth cringes inside just thinking about the strength of that drink.

He can almost hear the rise in commotion, as more party attendees leave the building for the north balcony. He’s glad he’s not there, but at the same time, kinda wishes he was - fireworks with a friend would have at least soothed the sting of being uncomfortable at a function somewhat.

“Well, here it comes,” says Stefon, ringing the rim of the champagne bottle with a pinky finger. “Another year. They just don’t know when to let up…”

Seth is struck by an idea.

“I think I’ve had too much stolen champagne,” he says, and reconsiders, because that’s a terrible way to start a pitch. “Hey, Stefon… You’re here, I’m here, we’re both stag.”

“Okay,” Stefon says nervously.

“We could bring in January with an exciting stupid decision,” Seth suggests. “You wanna do something crazy?”

One of Stefon’s fingers takes a second to rub at his chin.

“Always,” he says. He doesn’t come out with it immediately, which is curious enough. Apparently, Stefon is choosing this moment in history to take his time, to mull over commitment to a concept of active insanity.

“I was just thinking,” starts Seth, “I’ve never kissed a stranger at New Year.”

Stefon’s mouth falls open.

“You _haven’t?”_ he asks. “And you live in _New York?!_ Where have you been?”

“Near known and trusted mouths. No strangers,” he grins.

Stefon sets the champagne bottle on the floor. “We should, like, fix this for you,” he says, “it’s a tragic situation and luckily we can undo it in a heartbeat--”

“Yeah, I think so,” says Seth, who is momentarily distracted by the way Stefon’s fingers curl around the strip of bow tie hanging from his collar. Without thinking too hard about it, he makes the first real move, and tilts his head to press a kiss against his mouth. The corset is lacy and rigid under his palms.

Stefon inhales sharply, and melts into it. He tastes sparkly and sweet from the dessert champagne. One of his hands flutters over the curve of Seth’s shoulder.

He’s just swept his tongue across Seth’s bottom lip, and Seth’s just opened his mouth to it, when there’s an explosive bang and a burst of light from the other side of the building. Their noses knock when they look up - the fireworks have started. They must have missed the countdown.

“Happy N--”

Seth doesn’t wait for Stefon to finish. New Year, same kiss. They’re not done yet.

This is probably the only time in his life where he’s gonna feel like a classic movie star. The two of them are clutching at each other, not a single gap between their bodies, and it’s slow and focused and heavy with a passion he can’t put his finger on. 

They finally break away when a particularly loud flash-bang makes Stefon jump out of his skin. He laughs at himself for the reaction, but he doesn’t push Seth away, so they stay in each other’s arms for a second.

It’s nice. Holding Stefon’s whalebone-clad waist, with Stefon’s hands flat against his dress shirt.

“Wow,” Seth manages.

Stefon flushes a dusty pink color. “Okay, I've-- I’ve done crazier,” he admits, breathlessly, both hands planted squarely on Seth’s lapels, “but that was _brain killing_. That’s the best stranger kiss I’ve ever had, and that’s saying a _lot_.”

“Brain killing, huh?” Seth grins. He wants to laugh, but he’s feeling a little weak at the knees himself.

Stefon laughs to himself, quietly and wildly. “Almost,” he says, “it was _almost_ brain-killing. You should finish the job.”

There is no verbal agreement.

They melt into each other’s grip again - Stefon’s lips slot against his effortlessly the second time around, and the little noise he comes out with fizzes over Seth’s tongue. It’s nice to wrapped up with someone in a private moment, especially when a whole city is erupting into cheers and celebrations around them both. The physical curl of Stefon’s smile sends little sparks down his spine.

“Stefon! There you are, buddy!”

This time, Stefon looks pained to break away.

Seth eyes the doors. There’s a man with a furry ruff collar and several studded bracelets in the entranceway, with a huge blue ballgown gathered up in his arms.

“It’s not a _floaty_ one, but I think it’ll do the trick!” he’s saying, “I take it you borrowed some of the flutes? Y’know, I think all we need now is a crown and we’re set! The security guard I spoke to said I could try it on in the drunk tank, but I’m not drunk, so I politely declined. You coming?”

“Your Aslan is here,” Seth says drily.

Stefon rolls his eyes. “Oh, boy,” he mutters. “He’s five minutes from being the White Witch, too.”

“Well, I hope you have a nice night _not_ in the drunk tank,” Seth grins, “did you want the last of the champagne?”

“No,” says Stefon. “No, I think you need it more than I do.”

He detaches himself to lean down and pick up the neck of the bottle, setting it in the same spot on the barrier that he had done so earlier. With a flirty grin, a final grope of Seth’s upper arm, and a fleeting kiss on the lips, Stefon puts that final space between them.

“Have a good one,” he says.

“You too,” says Seth. “It was nice to meet you, Stefon.”

Stefon leaves with his dress-thieving friend - no doubt for some other party, where he’ll kiss some other stranger, and steal someone else’s champagne.

Seth leaves shortly afterwards. It’s half because he doesn’t want to get caught on a balcony where the public aren’t supposed to be, but it’s also because there’s nothing left for him to do at this event anymore.

He thinks he got a pretty good deal out of it, in the end. Happy New Year, indeed.

* * *

**+1  
Perfect World**

Seth wakes gently.

There’s something cartoonish about it - he can smell coffee coming from somewhere close. It lightens his body and eases him into consciousness. When he opens his eyes, he spots a lone mug, steaming from its perch on the end table.

Thursday? No, Friday. No work today, otherwise they wouldn’t have had so many screwdrivers the night before.

Oh, that’s right. Where’s Stefon?

Seth pats the mattress next to him, finds nothing but cold space, and blearily sits up. On the other side of their bedroom, Stefon is hurriedly dressing, flatiron smoking in the corner and fancy belt jingling.

“Mornin’,” Seth fumbles.

“Hey,” Stefon breathes, smearing lip balm over his mouth. “I have to head out, I hope that’s okay--”

Seth forces himself to sit up. Wow, that gross orange juice taste _definitely_ just got worse. “You’re working early,” he remarks. “Where are you headed?”

“That guy who eats weedkiller is setting up a club tonight in a freshly burned out shipping container full of sneezes,” Stefon says, “he’s disinfecting it as we speak. I gotta get there before the smoke clears! It’s a leasing opportunity I can’t miss. We had to borrow an industrial crane to literally ship in the venue.”

He hauls himself out of bed and meanders into the bathroom, humming acknowledgement at the correct points in the conversation. “Is it legal?” he asks.

“Mmmm. Not quite.”

Yeah, that checks out. It sounds like Stefon’s kind of thing.

“Well, have fun,” Seth grins, “I’ll be here.”

“You can come later. I’m sorry I can’t stay,” says Stefon, genuinely, pulling on his boots, “I’ve gotta go over right away - but the kids are eating cereal and watching cartoons right now! And I’ve switched on the hot water thingy in the bathroom, so Seth Meyers can have a nice shower for _sure_ \--”

Aw, that’s sweet.

“--and I’ve called the sitter for tonight!” Stefon adds. He hovers in the doorway. “So, like… You can join me later. If you want to, I mean…”

Seth uh-huhs through a capful of Listerine, spitting hurriedly and wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What are you doing?” Stefon asks.

“This,” Seth grins, and slides his hand over the warm skin of Stefon’s neck, to bring him into a shallow, too-minty kiss and what could solidly pass as a proper ‘good morning’.

“Oh,” says Stefon, when it’s over.

It’s not over, though. It’s years in the making. He tests his luck by dipping in to kiss Seth again.

(And Seth kisses back, because of course he does. That’s his husband’s tongue in his mouth at nine AM on a Friday, of _course_ he fucking kisses back.)

“You know,” he says, physically feeling the sensation of his weary eyes not bothering to refocus, “I’m really glad I got you in this life, Stefon.”

Stefon blinks in alarm. “Have you had _other_ lives, Seth Meyers?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Had some truly warped dreams last night. Maybe we should cut back on vodka and OJ before bed.”

“You _love_ screwdrivers, shut up. And you love bizarre dreams,” Stefon teases, “that's why you love me.”

Seth smiles a smile that is dopey and enormous. “I do love you,” he says, “in every world, too. Even the bizarre dream ones--”

He’s interrupted by a kiss on the cheek.

“--But that's mostly because you make sure the shower water is hot for me,” he finishes.

“I’ll call you tonight.”

“You’re gonna be late,” he reminds him, “I’ll see you there, okay?”

“Yeah,” Stefon grins, flattening his tongue against his front teeth. “I’ll see you at work.”

They share one more kiss, short and sweet, and then Seth watches as Stefon hikes open the bedroom window and leaves through the fire escape. Idiot. He loves that man. He loves that man _so_ goddamned much.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [@futureboy-ao3](https://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading ☺


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